


Sacre du Printemps

by KaelsMiscellany



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biting, Comeplay, Deals, F/M, Faeries - Freeform, Knotting, Lydia Martin - HBIC, Shadows - Freeform, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:53:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaelsMiscellany/pseuds/KaelsMiscellany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he reaches her he has fangs and teeth at the ready, like he’s about to attack her again, and she screams. Not in terror, but in anger; it’s her mind and she’s had it up to <i>fucking</i> there.</p><p>He pauses, smiles, and vanishes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacre du Printemps

**Author's Note:**

> Day six of Pydia week and dear god this has passed quickly.
> 
> Title comes from the Stravinsky ballet of the same name, so do the titles for the parts.

_**Jeu du rapt** _

Lydia Martin has always prided herself in being mentally strong, it being able to figure out what was going on and adapt faster than everyone else.

The first time she sees her attacker she isn’t actually sure it’s him, she only sees him from behind as he leads her a merry chase through the school to the sports awards cabinet. Where she finally learns his name, if it hadn’t then the whole hallucination would have been pointless, _Peter Hale_. She knows of the Hales, everyone does, arson and murder were all Beacon Hills could talk about for months after the fire happened.

But it’s only later that night at the ice rink when she realizes that he _is_ the one who attacked her on the lacrosse field. She doesn’t know if this is some sort of weird PTSD or something completely different (because she’s certain she didn’t hallucinate the teeth and claws and _eyes_ ), but she won’t let it get the best of her. When she finally gets home, after assuring Stiles a million times that she’s ‘ _fine._ ’, she looks up the flower she’d seen. It takes her longer than she would have liked to finally find it and she can’t help the bit of hysterical laughter that escapes her when she does. _Wolfsbane, or Aconite, has been associated with werewolves for centuries and is supposedly just as deadly to them as silver_.

There isn’t enough data to conclude of werewolves are real or not, but a closed mind isn’t going to help her with her apparent problem.

-

The not-really-remembered nightmares are bad, but unless she decides to take up lucid dreaming (definitely an option to consider) she doesn’t really have much control over her subconscious.

Lydia doesn’t usually let herself indulge in irrational hate, but she does with Mrs. Morrell. There’s just something about that woman who rubs her in all the wrong ways. And meeting the cute boy who looks like he stepped right out of the 90s Seattle grunge scene and feels vaguely familiar only makes the ensuing meeting only a little more tolerable.

-

When she gets home from the game that night she wants to _hurt_ Stiles. Right now she doesn’t even care that her hands somehow healed themselves from this morning. She waited an _hour_ and he never came back. 

She doesn’t cry herself to sleep, but she does shudder and shake.

-

Over the weekend she dives right into researching lucid dreaming and dips a toe into the cesspool that is werewolves on the internet. Really, it's not like she has anything better to do.

-

When Peter appears in her Econ class she knows it’s a hallucination because no one else is reacting to his sudden appearance (also the fact that they suddenly disappear when he turns to face her). She fights through the fear and panic as best she can, and she feels pride when she doesn’t do more than flinch when he starts flinging desks around. When he reaches her he has fangs and teeth at the ready, like he’s about to attack her again, and she screams. Not in terror, but in anger; it’s her mind and she’s had it up to fucking _there_.

He pauses, smiles, and vanishes. And she finds herself in front of the class with idiot-Finstock making a supposed crack about answering in English and grunge-boy looking for all the world like he wants to help her.

It does something to her that he doesn’t laugh.

-

The world seems to be trying her patience today. First Econ and now Chemistry and Allison telling her not to talk to Erica and Isaac, and then not saying why (not even the pitiful reason of ‘ _they’re bad news_ ’, which of course they are. You don’t go from epileptic to smoking hot and fine without _something_ helping you along.)

Scott at least seems more concerned with his own problems than trying to dictate her life. It’s a small relief that he lets her do her thing and doesn’t say a word.

When Isaac sits next to her she can practically _hear_ the ‘I’m a serial killer’ vibe coming off him (they still haven’t, after all, found out who killed his dad). For a brief moment she contemplates taking her pen and stabbing him with it, at the very least it would get _some_ of the frustration she’s feeling out. But that would mean a mark on her record and she can’t let that happen.

So she has to content herself with being more aloof than usual. Which works out perfectly really, because Isaac seems to think he’s hot shit right now, and she’s not going to have any of it; after all he still doesn’t have an engine on his bike (the Camero he’s been hitching rides in doesn’t count).

She wants to smack Scott for his outburst. Lydia Martin is _queen_ here and even though he’s now co-captain of the lacrosse team he’s still beneath her. He’s got no right to make a fool of her in front of everyone, her stupid fucking hallucinations are doing that enough for her.

The rock candy tastes slightly off and for a brief moment she thinks she might have gotten the reaction wrong, which is silly. But once she gets past that first bite there’s nothing wrong and she blames her paranoia (though Isaac refusing to touch the stuff isn’t helping much).

-

Lydia lets out some of her pent up frustration by being a snarky brat to Mrs. Morrell. And she prides herself on the fact that she doesn’t even flinch on the last Rorschach blot, even when she sees Peter.

-

She lets out more of her frustration when Stiles appears after her session and starts herding her like a sheep. Every time he brushes against her she smacks his hand as hard as she can. 

“Hey, what was that for?”

She just gives him a saccharine smile and doesn’t answer.

Then the rest of the Scooby gang starts herding her too (and she hates that in this scenario she’s helpless Daphne).

They give her one lame excuse after another and she wants to strangle them all.

Jackson, of course, is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Him and his stupid-ass key.

Then for some reason he starts accusing her of altering a tape and taking everything from him and she wants to scream back that of course she does, it’s her _right_. She doesn’t understand where that realization came from and it scares her.

Despite what Jackson might say she really does hate him, but because they're teenagers in an emotionally charged situation when he kisses her she doesn’t fight back.

And either she’s hallucinating again, or he’s suddenly grown scales. She’s very tempted to go with hallucination, especially when she starts hearing animal noises downstairs, but Peter never shows up and so far he’s the constant in all of them.

Right now she’s more than happy to hide when Allison tells her too. Once she’s locked herself away in the bathroom she does the smart thing and calls the police.

When she hears sirens she lets herself out and like the queen she is demands answers.

And, _of fucking course_ , the Scooby gang doesn’t give her any. Allison just herds (she’s really starting to hate that word) her to Allison’s car. Once they're inside Allison turns up the music, loud enough to make conversation impossible.

Lydia lets herself fume.

When they finally get to Lydia’s house Allison has the _gall_ to tell her not to tell anyone. Because she’s afraid her family will find out she’s still dating Scott. Lydia decides not to point out that her priorities are seriously screwed up if that's her main concern and instead sits through a speech about love that feels like it came straight from some teeny-bopper rom-com.

Then Allison goes on to equate her and Scott’s relationship with Lydia and Jackson’s. This time Lydia does laugh, because lust and popularity does not ‘twu-luv’ make. Allison stares at her stunned a little by the outburst, Lydia just gives her a saccharine smile and says, “thanks for your concern by the way,” before getting out of the car.

Prada nearly bursts past her as she opens the door, but she cages him with her legs and he turns around to scurry to the back door. She leaves her shoes in the foyer and follows him, this time letting him run out when the door opens.

She steps out onto the patio just in time to see him scurry out the back gate, and she curses which ever parent was stupid enough to forget to shut it. Knowing he could be anywhere she heaves a sigh and goes after him. “Prada?” She peers up and down the alleyway but doesn’t see him.

A rustling noise draws her attention to where the Beacon Hills Preserve meets the Breen’s house. And after the day she’s had it feels a bit like she’s walking towards a scene from a horror movie. “Prada?”

A shape appears in the underbrush and starts heading towards her (she seriously regrets not grabbing her mace). When the shape steps into the light and shows himself to be grunge-boy (though he doesn’t look so grungy in his very-warm looking coat) carrying Prada the tension in her rushes out. “I think you just scared a year off my life.”

He ducks his head and gives her a twist of the lips that isn’t quite a smile. “Sorry.” He sets Prada down and the dog trots over to her with a happy little ‘yip’. “You’re lucky I was taking a walk, you’d’ve never found your dog in the preserve.”

The smile she gives him is a real one. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome. So how are you?”

Lydia finds herself completely thrown by the question, because it's been _weeks_ since someone's asked her that. She straightens a little under his gaze. “I'm fine.”

His denim blue eyes narrow for a second, as if he's trying to decided whether to leave it or push. Apparently he decides to leave it be (and good for him, she's not sure what she would've done if he hadn't). “Well that's good.”

The silence that falls between them is, for a change, nice and Lydia doesn't feel pressured to fill it like she does with Mrs. Morrell. Grunge-boy sticks his hands in his coat pockets and pulls it closer around him. She's tempted to go up to him and see if he'll share his coat (she hopes he would and that it would turn into something more) but she resists.

“What’s your name?” She finally asks, because she can’t call him grunge-boy for the rest of her life. There's also that strange part of her that wants _more_ from him, and that his name is just the first step.

He ducks his head a little and gives her a shy smile, though it’s belied by the mischievous glint in his too blue eyes. “I’ll tell you tomorrow if. . .” He hunches down for a moment and picks a flower from she doesn’t know where. When he stands he offers it to her and she takes it. The small yellow flower isn’t anything truly special, but as the cliché went it was the thought that counted. “If you keep this.” His lips twitch. “I’ll ask you tomorrow and if I find out you tossed it away I’ll be really sad.”

She scoops Prada up, careful not to bruise the flower. “Well if I do, then tomorrow I’ll just lie.”

The only response he gives is a sad little smile; for a few moments she remains in the preserve and watches him walk off. She gives herself a small shake, _pull it together!_ And heads home herself.

She gratefully lets Prada down once they’re inside. Once in the kitchen she sets the flower by the sink and makes herself an Irish hot chocolate. As she drinks it she watches what little of the preserve she can see, like it holds all the answers.

 

_**Evocation des ancêtres** _

It’s a bit strange to come to school and after two classes realize that her so call friends (and ex-boyfriend) aren’t there. In a way it’s a bit of a relief. Sure Erica and Isaac are there, but they’re a complete 180 from yesterday and seem content to leave her be. 

She eats lunch alone and nurses the small seed of excitement at seeing grunge-boy and finally knowing his name.

Lydia does see Scott and Allison later on, but once again they’re so wrapped up in their own miniscule drama that they don’t even notice her.

School’s almost over when she finally sees grunge-boy, and her seed of excitement blooms. He leans against the lockers next to hers and gives her a small smile (she wonders what a real smile from him would look like). “Hey.”

“Hi,” Lydia thinks she might be blushing (she doesn’t know if she likes it or not).

“Well? Did you keep it?”

“I. . .I tried, but I think my mom threw it away. It’s my fault though, really. I left it out and my mom’s never really liked flowers, but I didn’t think she’d throw it out. . .Sorry.”

That sad smile from last night is back. “It’s OK, at least you didn’t lie like you said you would.” He fiddles with his backpack strap for a moment. “Do you still want to know who I am?”

She waits a beat before answering, she doesn’t want him to think she’s _that_ eager. “Of course.”

For a moment he just shuffles his feet, then he stops meeting her eyes. The bloom of excitement starts to whither. “What?”

“I’m afraid if I tell you my name you won’t like me anymore.”

Lydia shakes off the lumbering dread in her heart. “Well you won’t know unless you tell me won’t you?”

He finally meets her eyes again and the weight of them staggers her a little. “I’m Peter.”

 _Nononononono_ , she’s finding it hard to breath and it feels like her heart’s missing. Anger quickly follows the pain.

She slaps him. “You bastard.”

Peter doesn’t say anything just lets her march off, head held high. She barely holds back a shudder as she feels his eyes following her.

-

When she eventually gets home Peter-the-adult is waiting in her bedroom. She slams the door on him and storms down to the kitchen. But he’s an hallucination so it really shouldn’t surprise her that he’s waiting for her at the island.

She doesn’t acknowledge that she sees him, just angrily opens and closes cabinets as she makes herself a snack.

“Lydia. . .”

She ignores him in favor of rummaging around in the fridge.

“How else was I supposed to get you to trust me?”

She whirls on him. “You don’t need to gain my trust! _You’re not real_. Only a hallucination brought on by post-traumatic stress.”

The smile he gives her is far too patronizing for her tastes. “You’re right about me not being real Lydia. But this isn’t post-traumatic stress, no, you’re far too strong for that. To put it far more bluntly than I usually would I’m dead and. . .nesting in your mind until the opportune moment arises.”

Lydia bursts out laughing.

Peter's on her in a second, grabbing her shoulders and giving her a good shake. “Last week you were more than willing to contemplate the existence of werewolves, but you draw the line at ghosts?”

When he puts it like that he has a point, loathed as she is to admit it and her laughter dies down.

He's still holding onto her and she quickly shrugs him off. “What do you want?” She scoots away to lean against the cupboards. 

He doesn't approach her. “To not be dead again.” The smile he gives her is chilling. “And I need your help.”

-

Her first lucid dream happens completely by accident. It's her math class and she's desperately wishing that Beacon Hills had an IB program because then she might actually be challenged, and not have to deal with Mrs. Hobson repeating the same exact things she's been saying for the past three years. So Lydia lets herself drift a little, her notes quickly devolving into a doodle of swirls and spirals. She blinks and something shifts.

Lydia's first clue that something's different is the fact that Mrs. Hobson's talking like she came from a Peanut's cartoon. It takes her a moment to recall the battery of 'tests' for lucid dreaming: she pinches the skin between her fingers and doesn't feel anything, she leans over to touch the floor and instead of feeling cool linoleum there's only this strange fuzziness, and more for fun than anything else she climbs up on top of her desk and screams all the while thinking _don't look at me, don't look at me_.

No one does. 98% certain this is a lucid dream Lydia closes her eyes and thinks: _I want to be in my room_. When she opens them she does indeed find herself in her room. She lets herself relish in the flush of victory for a moment before feeling the need to explore. She passes by her vanity on her way to her bedroom door, pauses, then slowly returns to her mirror. Biting back a scream when the person staring back isn't herself, it isn't even Peter like she would have expected.

The woman staring back looks like she was carved from precious stones. Her skin is obsidian, hair black opal, the brief flash of teeth Lydia sees reminds her of mother of pearl, but it's the woman's garnet eyes that keep her frozen to the spot and make her feel, for the first time in her life, truly insignificant

Those mother of pearl teeth flash again as the woman smiles. “Hello, please have a seat.”

Lydia sits.

“I have a deal I'd like to make with you Lydia Bridget Martin.”

Hearing her full name feels a bit like being doused with ice-cold water, but it gives her back some control. Her eyes narrow. “You have me at a disadvantage.” It's old fashioned, but Lydia still manages to make it biting. “What kind of deal?”

The woman laughs. “I've had many names over my long life, in fact I've probably forgotten most of them.” She gives a lovely little shrug. “You can call me whatever you like. As to the deal I find myself growing tired of my position and wish to make you my heir.”

“Heir of what?”

“Of many things. Shadows and darkness, of the lies people tell each other and the secrets they keep to make life more bearable, the monsters and horrors that no one likes to talk about. Mysteries.”

For a heartbeat it feels like there's ice in her veins. “Why me?”

“Why not. You already think yourself a queen, there's a glorious little spark in you that could be so much more if you let it, and you intrigue me.” The woman gives a real smile this time and she reaches out of the mirror and sets a small vial full of something dark and smokey. “If you do decide you want to take me up on my offer drink that.”

Lydia leaves the vial where it is for now; she's not sure how much this woman knows about her life right now, but she feels compelled to ask. “What will happen to Peter?” She's not sure what she wants to happen to him. He's left her alone since yesterday in the kitchen when he outlined his plan to come back to life. He also broke her heart, and she can't let that stand.

“Your wolf parasite?” The woman gives another lovely shrug. “If you drink that while he is still inside you he too will change and become what _you_ want him to be. A sword and shield? A toy? Someone who will bloody his hands when you will not? It is up to you, he will be yours and he will Serve.”

A shiver races through Lydia, but she's not sure if it's of excitement or terror. Her hands shakily takes the vial from her vanity; she sets it in her lap and stares, she's never had power like that over someone, and part of her desperately wants it. When she looks back up the woman is gone.

There's a knock on her bedroom door and regardless if it's Peter, or some other strange creature with an offer, Lydia doesn't want to deal with it. She closes her eyes again and pictures herself back in her math class, _wake up, wake up, wake up_. When she opens her eyes Mrs. Hobson's still going on about standard inverse functions and just to make sure Lydia pinches the little bit of webbing between her fingers again. There's a small sting of pain that quickly vanishes.

A few moments later the bell rings and Lydia quickly shoves her things into her bag, freezing for a moment when she notices the glass vial full of smokey shadows in her lap, it too goes into her bag. Without a backward glance Lydia heads right out the front door and to her car. uncaring that she still has two classes left.

-

Once again Peter is waiting for her in her room when she gets home. This time she doesn't scurry away like a frightened girl, instead she lets her bag slip from her shoulder, but not before pulling out the vial and setting it on her vanity. He raises an eyebrow as he looks at it. “What's that?”

She smiles. “A change.”

The boyish smile he gives her doesn't fit him at all, it hurts to see it. “How wonderfully cryptic.”

Picking up the bottle again she starts to wiggle the stopper out. “Oh, it won't be so cryptic in a moment.”

Actual fear flashes in his eyes as the stopper pops off and falls to the floor. She raises it slightly to toast him, then before she can change her mind, downs it all at once. Whatever's in the vial is rich and fuzzy on her tongue. The fuzziness continues even after she swallows, but not for long.

Even though she _feels_ it slide into her stomach she's finding it hard to breath. Like the liquid somehow shifted to her lungs and is slowly squeezing out all the oxygen in her. She collapses to the ground and she can see her vision start to white-out.

Then Peter starts screaming.

Barely, just barely she can make him out. Make out his skin and muscles peeling away leaving bones and organs, before they too turn to smoke and dust. All that's left is a blue eyed shadow.

The world goes white.

  
  


_**Glorification de l'élue** _

Lydia isn't sure how much later it is when she finally wakes up, lungs burning with the need for air. Breathing deep she sits up and looks around. It's dark, but only by virtue of it being night outside, otherwise she can see every nook and cranny in her room like it was lit up by a spotlight.

Unsure of her legs she gets up slowly using her vanity as a crutch. Her legs manage to hold her weight and she leaves her room, her stomach driving her to get food. She pauses for a moment on the stairs when _something_ flickers at the back of her mind. It takes a few heartbeats to realize that that's _Peter,_ and when she does she doesn’t bother to hold back her smile.

Her stomach rumbles again and she continues to the kitchen; she can do tests and experiments later.

-

Lydia spends the first few days of spring break alone and testing. Her mother's gone off for an 'retreat', not that Lydia really cares, and ever since the divorce she and her father haven't been in touch. So far she's discovered she can walk through shadows, manipulate said shadows to pick up or do/ create things, and paradoxically glow.

Peter hasn't shown himself since Friday, but she can feel him lurking in the back of her mind, changing even more than her.

-

Despite her recent bout of crazy her party still turned out to be the smashing success it usually is, even if the drag queens were new. While passing out punch she happens to look up in her room to see Peter staring down at her. She smiles up at him before continuing with her rounds.  
  
-  
  
On Saturday the Whittemores call her telling her Jackson died at the lacrosse game last night, the one she almost went to. She drops the phone in shock; emotion wells up inside her thought it's not true sadness, only an echo of that feeling.

They invite her to speak at his funeral next week and she declines, right not all she can think of is the bad not the good.

-

Most of April passes in rushed spurts. Peter's still pouting, though she's sure she could drag him out if she wanted to. School is as dull as usual though she's noticed that Stiles, Scott and all the rest are A) treating her like glass and B) a lot more quiet than usual.

She doesn't really care about their long silences, but she resents their treatment of her, right now glass is the farthest thing she's from.

The woman, who she's taken to calling Garnet, visits in her her dreams, teaching her politics, history, etiquette, magic, psychology, and anything else she might need to know when she rules. More often than not Lydia spends most of her weekends sleeping.

-

Then everything changes on the last day of April.

It's only a few minutes away from May 1st when she awakes with a start. Her eyes dart around looking for the source, _'there are many who would not want you to survive to take my throne, be wary'_ , only to find it next to her in the form of Peter.

His expression is a mix of angry and amused. “Hello.”

Like the queen she is Lydia gives him a small nod. “Peter.”

He sits up a little to lean against her headboard. “That was quite the trick you pulled.”

She knows he means it as an insult, but she doesn’t take it as one. “Thank you.”

His teeth flash blinding white. “Don't think I'll underestimate you a third time.”

Lydia gives him a smile of her own, “good.” Tendrils of shadow wrap around her arms and legs, creating vines, roots, and spirals against her skin. “Though there are better ways you could spend your time than fighting me.”

Peter crooks an eyebrow. “What? Being your lap-dog? I'm a wolf not a chihuahua.”

“I have Prada, why would I need another one, and anyways I don't think you'd fit.” That gets a laugh from him. “No I was thinking more of an alliance.”

“Not much you could offer me 'Dia, I got my revenge, I'm not exactly a werewolf anymore so I can't be Alpha, and my body's a bit too rotted for me to return to it.”

“I could make you a new one, a better one. And don't call me 'Dia.”

He gives a derisive snort. “A younger one? You'd love that wouldn't you? You the queen of whatever and me as a pup, the eye-candy you can stomach, on your arm.” Before he can react her shadows trap him against the bed, one is even bold enough to gag him. She waits for his struggles to die down before straddling him.

The shadows still on her skin shift to form new patterns as she leans down to his face. “Well if you don't want your body, what about mine?” The surprise on his face pleases her. “You can do whatever you want, if it causes me no grievous harm, as long as you protect me and do everything I ask in all other matters.” Her shadows vanish, taking her pajamas with them. She gives a teasing stretch. “Would you like that Peter?”

He can't speak of course because he's gagged, but she can feel his interest in other ways. Her fingers play with the buttons on his shirt as she sits down and grinds against him. His gag slithers away. “Do we have a deal?”

His eyes darken to oil slicks and he grins, showing teeth that would shame a shark. “We have a deal.”

Between one thought and the next the shadows holding him are gone and their positions are reversed.

He yanks his shirt off and shreds it, using some of the fabric to bind her hands to the headboard. She watches him stare at another strip for a moment before tossing it away. His voice sounds like rust in her ear. “Let's see how quiet you can be 'Dia.”

Peter starts nipping at her jaw while his hand move lower to stroke her breasts. His touch is heavy but soft and it floods her with a pleasant warmth. She tries to arch up and get more but one of his hands shifts slightly lower to pin her down. Mouth and teeth move lower, nipping and sucking at her neck. His hands move down too, petting and caressing her stomach. A whimper escapes her at the loss and she can feel a fleeting grin against her.

He makes up for it though with claws gently scratching against her, goosebumps rising in their wake, and hands that seem to know exactly where to apply pressure to make her whimper and writhe. He noses at the base of her neck and she can't help the small giggle that escapes her, because all she can think of is an overly affectionate puppy.

Then he reminds her of how much a wolf he really is by biting down, teeth sinking deep; he starts to worry at the flesh in his mouth and all she's full of now is _painpainmakeitstop!_

She chokes back a scream and he gives a pleased rumble. One that travels straight from his throat, slithering into her and making itself right at home amongst her innards. The hiss of a zipper and the rustle of cloth as he shucks the rest of his clothes echoes in her ears and she tries to relax so he doesn't hurt her more than he already has.

But the vicious thrust she's expecting never comes. Instead he's rutting against her stomach, animal grunts muffled by her neck. An occasional spark of pleasure goes off in her when he brushes against her clit, but it's only a brief relief from the ache his bite's become.

Then he's coming against her, covering her in semen. His rumble returns and it continues when he lets her neck go and pulls away, kneeling in the v of her legs. She squirms under his stare, wanting him to do _something_.

Eventually he does, hands sliding up her thighs to her stomach, fingers pressing and rubbing semen into her; especially her scars. She feels she should get a medal for resisting the urge to roll her eyes at his caveman gesture. He leans over her to once more whisper in her ear. “Ready for round two?”

Her cheeks flush in anger, because he'll do round two whether or not she actually is. That's the deal; he's taking great pleasure to rub salt into her metaphorical wounds.

This time he licks his way down her, only giving her neck the barest hint of attention before moving down her nipples and laving them stiff. Pleasure quickly starts to overwhelm what pain's left in her and she mewls as he moves down to her stomach.

His shark teeth scrape against her, small furrows blooming with red in their wake. Implacable hands hold her hips flush with the bed as he moves even lower, nosing for a moment at her curls before his tongue dips in and flicks her clit. Her legs fall open as she gives a happy little moan.

Soon his teeth join the equation too, gentler here than anywhere else but every scrape still sends shock-waves through her making her twitch.

Orgasm crashes over he, coating everything in a haze of endorphins. Her body's too limp to do anything else but go along when he turns her over and puts her on her knees, face pressed slightly into the bed.

A whine rips from her throat as his fingers push into her, scissoring and stretching her. She pushes back as another finger enters; a growl escapes him and she shivers. He pushes against her G-spot for a moment and she bites her lip to hold in the scream that wants to escape. His fingers pull out and for a moment the only thing that comes from Peter is an obscene slurping noise.

Then he's covering her an insistent weight that forces her to spread her knees slightly to better bear it. His breath tickles her ear. “Very good 'Dia.”

He's halfway in before she even realizes he's entered her. Peter's stretching her more that she thought he would, but the pressure is a pleasant one. When he's in her fully a sigh escapes her. He chuckles, nuzzling her neck. Peter starts moving and her mind shatters a little.

His thrusts are slow and even, and his name finally passes her lips in plaintive whimper. “Yes 'Dia?”

Instead of an answer a shuddering gasp escapes her at a slightly deeper thrust.

“I didn't quite catch that, you'll have to speak up.” There's a flash of pain to go with her pleasure as his teeth scrape against his bite.

Oooo, she's going to slap him for that later. “Faster,” she finally manages to get out.

A thoughtful hum tickles it's way through her as he thinks about it. . .for so long that she's squirming, trying to get his body to move even if his mind won't. One of his hands slides up, _down?_ , her stomach to her breasts, bringing her movements to a shuddering halt.

The thrusts stop and that's even worse. Once again his teeth scrape her neck. “I think not, 'Dia.” His teeth sink back into the bite at the same time his maddeningly slow thrusts start again. She's being battered between extremes and her mind and synapse are firing confusedly.

He keeps _pushing, pushing, pushing_ , and a second orgasm rips through her, fiercer than the last one and making her bite her comforter to stay quiet. But it has the upside of creating a pleasant numbness in her.

She can still feel him moving and every once in a while an aftershock spreads through her. A quiet, barely there sigh passes her lips and like it's some sort of cue he _roars_ into her throat as he starts spilling into her. Something new starts pushing into her and her eyes widen in surprise. As it stretches her further a sort of half-orgasm bubbles up, making it more enjoyable than it would have otherwise.

When his cock gives it's last spurt he releases her throat and shifts slightly to untie her. Her body aches in good and bad ways as he moves their still connected bodies into a more comfortable position.

Nebulous shadows swirl around her for a moment as if uncertain they're finished, before rushing towards her neck to lap up the blood seeping from her and close the wound. The hand pinned under her starts to absentmindedly pet her side. He starts rubbing a cheek against the crown of her head and a noise that she so very badly wants to call a purr fills the room.

Lydia falls asleep warm and safe.


End file.
